


Spanish Wine

by rileyriley



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Paris (City), cheating but surprise its not actually & is just a ploy to make arthur feel guilty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-25 00:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16186388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rileyriley/pseuds/rileyriley
Summary: It’s Madeline’s last semester here, and he knows she’s been accepted to a graduate program. She came to his apartment one night with snowflakes on her eyelashes and a smile brighter than the streetlights behind her, and they didn't sleep until the dawn made the snow glow pink. He never asked where she got accepted.He flips to the next page of the paper. There’s still weeks left to the semester, almost two months until graduation. He continues grading, and acts like nothing is ending.





	Spanish Wine

**Author's Note:**

> happy lesbians is all i care about. arthur is bitter because he didn't even get a critically acclaimed novel out of his manic pixie dream girl, and she's off living her best life with her wife in paris
> 
> [here is a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/iyels4yw25k8xb907jubr2y0n/playlist/3j8hMpE5BRuta8SIV9TlxV) of songs i listened to a lot while writing this
> 
> also lol imagine if i could write porn how much longer this would be. even still im amazed it ended up so long!

Madeline is laying across his couch, legs thrown up on the cushions. There’s four stacks of papers on the coffee table as they go through grading. She circled a paragraph and handed it to him with a chuckle.

“Apparently someone _else_ thought they could just watch the _Oliver Twist_ movie to pass the class, too.”

Arthur takes the paper, reading it. “If they do it again, mark it down a letter.” When he looks back up to hand the paper back, she’s let her hair down and it almost takes his breath away. He goes back to the paper in his lap.

It’s a Sunday in April, the first day it’s been warm enough to throw open the windows while they graded papers. She’s in a dress, like she’s already celebrating spring with the crocuses that are still popping up through the snow. Arthur’s been in Montreal almost ten years now and still isn’t used to the Canadian winters.

But it’s Madeline’s last semester here, and he knows she’s been accepted to a graduate program. She came to his apartment one night with snowflakes on her eyelashes and a smile brighter than the streetlights behind her, and they didn't sleep until the dawn made the snow glow pink. He never asked where she got accepted.

He flips to the next page of the paper. There’s still weeks left to the semester, almost two months until graduation. He continues grading, and acts like nothing is ending.

When he finishes grading the paper, he goes to the kitchen to make tea for them both. The street outside his window is mostly mud brown and new-growth green, dark and wet from the melting snow.

Suddenly arms wrap around his waist, and Madeline is pressing herself against him, and mumbles into his ear, “Intro lit classes don’t have _that_ interesting papers; what’s got you quiet?”

Arthur can feel her lips against his neck; she is warm and solid behind him. He’s still not used to her height, and, for the first time, thinks how he will never have the opportunity to become so. He puts a hand over hers and says, “The change of seasons, perhaps,” he lets out a chuckle, “or it could be these papers.”

She laughs with him, and presses kisses along as much of his neck and jaw as she can reach. When he turns around, Madeline kisses him hard, and he trails a hand through her long hair.

He is on his knees when the kettle starts whistling, and Madeline swears and almost falls over when she turns it off. She pulls him up by his hair and finishes undoing his shirt. Her kisses are open-mouthed as she presses a condom into his hands, and starts on the belt of his pants.

Arthur doesn’t like to call it _fucking_. He knows it’s nothing close to _making love_ and he doesn’t wish it to be. It’s less than an affair, neither of them have significant others, and he isn’t her degree advisor. But he knows the power of words and she is still his TA. When he thinks about it (because they rarely talk about it; he is, afterall, English) he uses words like _sleeping together_ or _having sex_. Sometimes there is reason to be straightforward.

Later, Arthur does bring Madeline a cup of tea while she continues grading papers on his bed, dressed in underwear one of his shirts. She is reading the last essay.

“Have you ever been to Paris?” Madeline asks, underlining something on the paper she is reading.

“Once,” Arthur says, “when I was still in university.”

Madeline nods, and he can't tell if her frown is from what he said, or if the essay she’s grading is exceptionally bad. “I’m moving over the summer, so I can be settled before the school year starts.”

“Oh,” he says blandly, “I can't give you any travel tips, then,” and brings the empty mugs back to the kitchen.

The sky is turning sunset pink and orange when they finish, and lesson plans turn into Madeline riding him on the couch. She turns down a dinner offer, saying she doesn’t want to make her roommate take care of her cat every night. He swallows the words in his throat and just nods, and Madeline lets herself out.

 

Paris is indifferent to Madeline’s arrival, not slowing down to allow her to get used to the new city. It’s nothing less than she was expecting, and she jumps headfirst into learning Paris.

Her mother, embarrassingly, insists on traveling out with her, and they spend Madeline’s birthday at the Louvre. She sends Arthur a postcard with her new address that she bought at the museum.

When September rolls around, Madeline is already tired of tourists. She still gets looks when she speaks with her Québécois accent, but she does not speak louder when she is misunderstood like the _Americans_. Madeline and her friends make games of the differences in their French.

It's Saturday, and Madeline made the unfortunate decision to spend the afternoon downtown. It's one of the last warm days of September. It's hard to not people-watch around the tourist centers, and _oh,_ Madeline has found the most lost, most American girl she has ever seen.

She is leaning on her luggage in front of the subway map with a half unzipped backpack and her phone in her hand. She's mumbling out the names of the metro stations, mispronunciation clear even from the café Madeline is sitting at. The girl adjusts her backpack, and half the contents fall out.

The girl is still swearing when Madeline starts helping her pick up some of the things that had rolled farther away.

“These fell out as well,” Madeline says, handing back a stick of deodorant, three collectible pen from Florence, Hamburg, and Budapest, and a metal water bottle.

“Shit! Thank you.” She stuffs everything haphazardly back into the bag, and stands up, holding out her hand. “Are you American? I'm Amelia.”

Madeline shakes her hand tentatively. “Canadian, actually,” which makes Amelia laugh.

“I should have guessed, you actually helped me when all my shit fell out. That's, like, the nicest thing anyone could have done for me right now, fuck.”

Madeline smiles politely and wonders if Amelia ever slows down when she talks.

“I just got here this morning, and I wanted to go up the Eiffel tower, cause that's like, what you do, but it cost more than I was expecting. So I figured I’d walk to the hostel, so I could still see the city, and save the money! And it's been really beautiful! But this map is really not helping me figure out where I’m supposed to be going.” Amelia smiles, then laughs to herself.

Madeline takes a step closer to Amelia. To look at the address on her phone, she tells herself. “I can take you to the hostel. What’s the address?”

And Amelia tells her and thanks her profusely, and as they are walking to the metro entrance, she starts telling Madeline stories of her grand postgrad adventure. Amelia is loud and excited and gestures wildly, and her stories almost distract Madeline from getting off at the right stop.

When they get to the hostel, Madeline insists on going with Amelia to translate. She bashfully accepts, and, surprisingly, she is quiet when they walk into the building. Amelia wishes she took French in high school as she watches them talk, as Madeline’s frown deepens and the conversation goes on much longer than getting one bed should be. Amelia has other addresses and most of her emergency money.

Madeline sighs and turns to Amelia. “They're out of beds.”

“I kind of - guessed that,” Amelia says, trying to not sound as disappointed as she feels. “I have other places to look...”

“No,” Madeline says softly, and puts a hand gently on Amelia's arm. “You can stay with me. If you would like, I mean.”

Amelia’s breath hitches involuntarily, and feels frozen in place.

“I have room, I promise.” Madeline pauses, like she's waiting for an answer, but Amelia still can't seem to find her voice. “I wouldn't offer if I didn't.”

Amelia nods furiously - god, she can feel how red her face it. She fiddles with her Cologne pen as she follows Madeline until she stops in front of an apartment door. Everything in Paris is too much; she might need more time here than she was anticipating.

Unlocking the door, Madeline tells her to put her bags by the oversized couch, which she swears is more comfortable as a couch than a pull-out bed, anyway, and gives her a quick tour of the apartment. Bathroom, where she can put her toiletries, towels for a shower, the kitchen and where the dishes are if she’s hungry later, Madeline’s bedroom.

“You should get settled in,” Madeline says, “travelling all day is awful. I’ll start dinner.”

Amelia nods, words still aren’t coming to her easily after being showered in Madeline’s hospitality. She sits on the couch (which, really is comfortable, wow) for ten minutes to gather herself before she even starts unpacking her bed clothes and toothbrush.

After her shower, Amelia hears music through the bathroom door coming from the kitchen and the _shrkt, shrkt_ of a knife on a wooden cutting board. The shower does make her feel more awake after a day of travel and pulling luggage across Paris. She triple-checks the sink and shower-tub to make sure she didn’t leave a mess before opening the door.

Madeline is cutting up a tomato for the salad. There’s a half-full bottle of red wine at the end of the counter, and a glass Madeline’s already started next to the cutting board. When she hears Amelia come into the kitchen, she turns and grabs the bottle.

“I didn’t know if you liked wine. Would you like some?”

Amelia doesn't really like wine, it’s part of the reason she spent so much time in Germany, but finds herself saying, “I’ll try it,” and her stomach flutters when Madeline’s face lights up before she turns to grab an empty wine glass.

Looking down the red wine, Amelia swirls it around in the glass. That’s what you do with wine, right? Madeline has turned her attention back to cutting vegetables, but Amelia can still see Madeline is looking for her reaction out of the corner of her eye.

She sips it like she’s thirteen again at some aunt’s wedding and getting a special exception for the toast to the newlyweds. And it’s...not much better than when she was thirteen. There’s no burn, sure, but it just tastes like...bad grapes.

Amelia nods likes she likes the wine and takes another sip to be polite, then puts it on the table where she hopes to forget it.

Madeline puts the last of whatever she was cutting in the salad bowl and brings the knife and cutting board to the sink. “You don’t need to drink it if you don’t like it.” Amelia can hear the smile in Madeline’s voice; she must not have been able to hold her poker face very well.

“No, it’s good-” Amelia tries to explain, but Madeline just lets out a soft laugh.

“I don’t even think it’s a French wine.” Madeline picks up the bottle and inspects the label. “No, it’s Spanish.” She grins at Amelia, and Amelia wishes she could blame her red face on the alcohol.

“When in Rome?” Amelia tries. When Madeline laughs, Amelia’s chest lightens and she laughs too.

“I’ll make you some sweet tea.”

Amelia doesn’t know why her next thought is _I would marry you._

 

Dinner is easy, they talk about Amelia’s travels and Madeline’s studies and what they miss from home and their favorite parts of travel. The tea is enough like home to make Amelia miss it more, and off enough to know she’s not home yet.

They clean the table and Madeline washes the dishes. She could be home, with how easily they move around each other. Madeline explains her morning schedule - classes, some research -  and then they say their goodnights.

Amelia sits on the couch - which, really, is way too big, and incredibly comfortable - and writes her daily email to her parents. Time zones and public wifi made calls impractical, but Amelia’s parents still wanted some proof she wasn’t kidnapped or dead. Amelia loved them too much to stay out of contact for so long, anyway.

The streetlights cast long orange lines across the room, and the street sounds are muffled through the window. Amelia falls asleep eventually.

 

Amelia wakes up to Madeline quietly puttering around the kitchen making coffee and breakfast, still in pyjamas. She rubs her eyes and sits up, and Madeline doesn’t notice until Amelia comes in the kitchen with a blanket cape.

“Sorry for waking you up,” Madeline mumbles, rubbing her eyes again.

“It’s fine, this is your house.”

Madeline just smiles in response. “What do you like in your coffee?”

“Milk?” Amelia says, pulling the blankets around her cold feet.

Madeline nods and pulls a quart out of her fridge, and pours two cups. She pours some of the milk in her own mug, and pushes the coffee and milk to Amelia. Amelia pours the milk to the top of the mug, sips some off, and adds more milk.

“You could have just said you wanted a latte,” Madeline says after taking a long sip of her own coffee.

Amelia hides her face in the coffee mug. “Well, it depends on the coffee.” Madeline gives her a look. “And this is good coffee!”

Breakfast is quiet, and they get dressed for the day. Amelia is ready to explore Paris. Madeline gives her a paper with her phone number, address, and directions to her university. The morning is warm, and promising to get even hotter. They go their separate ways on the subway, Amelia wanting to go downtown to start on the tourist traps so Madeline can show her the real Paris.

She finds her Paris collectable tourist pen, and waits in the the hot sun for a chance to go up the Eiffel tower. She takes her own tourist pictures, gets asked to take a picture of a large Moroccan family for them, and watches someone propose to their partner in front of the Eiffel tower in some language that’s definitely not French or English.

Too soon it’s time to meet back up with Madeline. Amelia follows Madeline’s instructions, walking to the university library. Amelia appreciates how written French looks pretty English and schools put signs everywhere. And also the detailed instructions that Madeline gave her. _Bibliothèque_ looks familiar enough from long-ago high school Spanish class.

Amelia knows she looks like a tourist; she can’t stop looking at the architecture everywhere. Foreboding gothic towers next to vast neoclassical buildings, bumping up next to swirling art nouveau accents. There’s weight and history behind the city, more than she felt when she was in Washington DC to fly to Europe.

Amelia finds Madeline outside the library in sunglasses and holding two iced coffees. She smiles and holds one out to Amelia. “Here’s some real French coffee,” Madeline says.

Amelia looks at the logo on the cup, then takes a sip. “It’s Starbucks.”

“Yup.”

It’s not her normal Starbucks order, but apparently Starbucks doesn’t vary much across international lines. And iced coffee is nice in the heat of the afternoon.

Madeline leads them off in an unofficial tour of the university. The library itself is amazing, but most importantly air conditioned. Madeline has an actual office, shared with four other graduate students, but Amelia still remembers undergrad and all the fancy accommodations that graduate students seemed to get. Now on the other side, it doesn’t seem like much. They wander past the science building, which Amelia is surprised to see is not an ugly brutalist cement block. They laugh.

Madeline’s hair is falling out of her ponytail when she promises to get Amelia into the Louvre for free. It’s frizzing out in the humidity and a rose gold halo in the sunset light. Dinner is in a small cafe that Madeline claims is the _best in Paris_ which also means that she has to order for them both so the waiter doesn’t “forget” to bring them their drinks. They’re laughing and sharing stories about their childhood pets walking back to Madeleine's apartment. Amelia’s feet hurt from walking all day and she leans against the door frame as Madeline finds her keys. Madeline stops, sucks in a quick breath. Amelia is about to ask if she’s lost her keys when Madeline _kisses_ her.

It’s a hard kiss, dripping in want. Amelia finds her hand on Madeline’s hip, and pulls her back close for another kiss. Madeline wraps her arm around Amelia’s shoulder and Amelia feels the lanyard drag along her shoulder. She laughs and breaks the kiss, Madeline mumbling a quiet, “what?”

“You didn’t lose your keys, good,” Amelia says.

Madeline lets out a small laugh in response. “No, I - I found my chance, is all.” She pulls away a bit, fits the key into the lock and opens the door. Madeline stays close so Amelia doesn’t have to take her hands off her. Pulling Amelia into her apartment, Madeline throws her bags into the hall and reaches to take Amelia’s bag.

“Come on,” Madeline murmurs, and takes Amelia’s hand to lead her to her bedroom.

Madeline sits on her bed and pulls Amelia close. She’s smiling, bright and excited. Amelia falls forward, half kneeling over Madeline. They both laugh, and Amelia feels some of her anxiety fade away.

“C’mon,” Madeline encourages again, moving back against her headboard.

Amelia sits up on the bed, still holding Madeline’s hand. “I haven’t - I mean, not - not like this.”  Her face must be bright red, she feels so warm.

“That’s alright,” Madeline says, a little pink as well. “We can do whatever you’re comfortable with, that’s all.”

Amelia nods, and finally crawls into Madeline’s lap, sitting back on Madeline’s thighs. Madeline threads a hand through Amelia’s hair, just feeling. Amelia leans down for a kiss, softer this time, less desperate. Amelia balances herself with her hands on Madeline’s shoulders, and Madeline's hands rub up and down her back, settling on her hips.  

Amelia pulls back slowly, suddenly asking “Hey, hey, Madeline, does this count as French kissing?”

Madeline gives her a confused look.

“‘Cause… cause we’re in France. Kissing.” Amelia can’t stop herself from laughing at her own joke, and Madeline joins in.

“If you want it to be,” is all she says.

Amelia gives Madeline a few quick pecks, then leans back and takes off her shirt.

“Come on,” Amelia says, throwing it off the bed and reaching for Madeline’s.

 

Two years since Madeline left his apartment, Arthur sees the engagement photos online, and, shortly later, barring international postage times, receives a wedding invitation. The paper is bright white with red and blue accents, with RSVP options for the main wedding in Ottawa (where, Arthur notes, is the country least likely to nullify their marriage), and a second reception in Virginia for any of Amelia’s family that can’t make the wedding.

He fills out the RSVP card, and never mails it.

 

He sees the wedding photos, and honeymoon photos, too.

 

Madeline is the one that reaches out when he is on sabbatical in London. He’s never been able to say no to her, and finds he still can’t. He works in a trip over a long weekend complete with a hotel room because he doesn’t know if he will want to stay at their house. Madeline promises that it’s no issue, they have a spare room, but he insists that his train back leaves at an early hour and he doesn’t want to inconvenience them. She makes him promise one night’s dinner at their new house.

Arthur arrives in the Paris train station with more grey hairs and wrinkles than the last time she saw him. She makes fun of it for him just the same. Madeline glows when she introduces Amelia, _my wife._

They go out to eat, as one does in Paris. Amelia is infuriatingly nice, and they are exasperatingly in love. They are proper tourists, and visit places from books they’ve read, with much less alcohol than Arthur's first visit. Amelia excitedly listens as he and Madeline discuss _Les Miserables_ and _A Tale of Two Cities._ By Notre Dame, Amelia and Madeline attempt a dance from _An American in Paris_ and they all laugh about it. They toast with Spanish wine at the end of the night, and Arthur starts to regret his hotel.

Dinner the next night is at their house, and they have Amelia’s favorite beer. Amelia excitedly tours Arthur around the house as Madeline finishes cooking, explaining her plans to fix the back porch to something more BBQ friendly, the rooms they’re going to paint, her ideas for redoing the bathroom. Arthur wonders what Amelia’s job must be. They certainly couldn't afford all these changes on only Madeline’s university salary.

Arthur regrets having to leave, in part due to Ameila’s apple pie he wishes he could take home. He takes a cold shower when he gets back to the hotel room.

In the morning, he gets a text from Madeline.

_I know your train doesn’t leave until this afternoon_

He stares at it, trying to not look between the lines. He puts down his phone and continues getting dressed.

_Amelia’s already left for work_

He never could say no to Madeline.

 

The knock on the door is quiet and polite. Madeline opens the door and smiles at him, and the shame he feels can’t stop the way his heart swells. Her hair is tied back loosely, perfectly messy. She invites him in with a kiss on the cheek, dropping his bag right inside the doorway.

“You can sit on the couch, I’ll get you some tea,” she says, as if this was some casual house visit.

Arthur runs his hands through his hair, trying to calm his nerves. He feels like a teenager again, nerves, confusion, and guilt.

Madeline comes back with a mug, places it on the side table, pushes Arthur back into the couch, and kneels as she straddles his lap. She sits tall as she fists a hand in his hair. Arthur closes his eyes taking a sharp breath in.

Arthur’s hands find themselves trailing down her back, feeling hot skin under the hem of her shirt. Madeline pulls his head back and she bites at his neck, her other hand travelling down the front of his shirt to his pants. He’s too old for this, god, he’s too damn old for this.

 

Later, Madeline pours the cold tea down the drain.

 

Arthur sees the baby announcement photos online four months later, and immediately feels sick. A sonogram photo titled _“Baby Williams-Jones”_ and Amelia’s head on Madeline's shoulder with their hands framing Madeline’s stomach. The wounds feel fresh as the day he left Paris. He’s ruined something terrible, and he knows it.

It’s not until hours later he sees the message that Madeline sent him. 

> _Dear Arthur,_
> 
> _I know how you are going to feel when you see the baby announcement. I want you to know this: Amelia and I agreed to do this. She was wholeheartedly agreeable to what we did. There is no regret or mistrust between us. Amelia and I have wanted children since we got married. We have been trying to work with fertility clinics, but only received, at worst, disgust, and, at best, annoyance at our attempts to start a family._
> 
> _We plan to have only Amelia and I listed as the parents on the child’s birth certificate. If you would like to be involved in the child’s life, we would be welcome to talk about it, and more than likely agreeable to most things. If you choose to ignore this email like you did our wedding invitation, I don’t blame you. I hope to hear from you again one day_
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Madeline_


End file.
